Nic Narrates

My apartment is an obstacle course of folded laundry, shoes, and magazines. I’m packing for Thanksgiving with the family, which means South Carolina. South Carolina- where I last saw a commercial for a free gun-cleaning workshop being held at the local Baptist cult. Yes, really.

Things are so different now. And I’m not talking about gun control. I remember when Thanksgiving meant snow, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a week off of school, and the kiddie table.

Now it means palm trees, bickering with Grandma (“Boss Lady”), and cooking for five hours while Dad and my brothers sit on their asses playing Ghost Recon or some shit in the basement. Let me tell you, nothing says “Thanksgiving” like the booming echoes and floor vibrations of rapid-fire grenade launchers and semi-automatic gunfire.

The Thanksgiving revelry typically kicks off with Mom making the rounds, flicking light switches and banging pots and pans for everyone to “COME EAT NOW!!!!” Once gathered, Mom and I maneuver Boss Lady into a back corner seat.

We know better than to be fooled by G-ma. The woman has a plan. If we’re not careful, she’ll not only finish her meal in 10 minutes or less, she’ll clear the table and down three pieces of pumpkin pie before we’ve buttered our dinner rolls.

After the Thanksgiving of ’99, we decided to “make things a little more interesting.” Last year, I was way off- dinner lasted a WHOLE 36 MINUTES- a new record, up from a previous best of 22.

But it’s when everyone has loaded up their plates that the real fun begins. It’s time to raise our glasses (Boss Lady with her Merlot on ice) for our annual Thanksgiving toasts.

The trash talking usually starts around mid-October. Text messages back and forth. A random email. An anonymous voicemail message from time to time. It’s all a very secretive venture, wherein the aim is to outdo one another in the telling of a shared family memory.

G-ma typically goes sentimental on this one, selecting from various Disney World trips. I personally like to find the most forgotten, yet memorable, nugget of hilarity possible. Two years ago, I’m proud to say I had them all crying after an energetic rendition of Dad’s reaction to the dented, furry, egg-sized baked potato we surprised him with for dinner one night. This year, I’m pretty sure I’m not a serious contender, but I can’t wait to hear what they come up with. I can’t wait to remember.

So, even though they can seriously piss me off sometimes, they’re my family and there’s nothing quite like their welcome.

Filed under: family matters, nostalgia by Nic